


A Light in Your Eye

by ilookedback



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Cabin Fic, F/M, a little bit of sex at the end but nothing too explicit, just sweet and sappy, light teasing, no mention of the baby so either precanon or AU or assume there's a babysitter at home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25597891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilookedback/pseuds/ilookedback
Summary: You think of the hike you’d had planned for tomorrow with a twinge of regret. The trails will be impassably muddy—by your standards, anyway, even if they’re nothing worse than what Frankie’s used to. But you’ve already been over that argument with him, since the first time you suggested this trip and he reacted with scandalized mock horror at the concept ofglamping, like it was the dirtiest word he could think of and he couldn’t believe you’d let it pass your lips. You’d worn him down quickly, all begrudging acquiescence once you’d reminded him it wasyourbirthday trip andwe aren’t all mountain men, Francisco.
Relationships: Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Original Female Character(s), Francisco "Catfish" Morales/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	A Light in Your Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Written for keeper0fthestars on Tumblr, who requested, _getting caught in a rainstorm or snowstorm_. Unbetaed. Title from Fool in the Rain by Led Zeppelin.

The rain starts so abruptly, coming down so heavily, it makes your pulse speed up despite yourself. You’ve never been more grateful for Frankie’s expert driving as you watch him calmly flip on the windshield wipers, his hands steady on the wheel, eyes focused on the road ahead. He could be driving down a sunny smooth-paved road for all he’s affected by the downpour.

You think of the hike you’d had planned for tomorrow with a twinge of regret. The trails will be impassably muddy—by your standards, anyway, even if they’re nothing worse than what Frankie’s used to. But you’ve already been over that argument with him, since the first time you suggested this trip and he reacted with scandalized mock horror at the concept of _glamping_ , like it was the dirtiest word he could think of and he couldn’t believe you’d let it pass your lips. You’d worn him down quickly, all begrudging acquiescence once you’d reminded him it was _your_ birthday trip and _we aren’t all mountain men, Francisco_.

He pulls up to the property manager’s cabin, where you’ll need to stop to check in and pick up your keys, and lets the car idle, drumming his fingers on the wheel and staring off into the distance. You hesitate for a moment, steeling yourself to face the rain—you had packed an umbrella, of course, and of course it’s tucked into the bottom of your bag in the back of the car—and eventually he glances over at you, amusement playing at his lips. “We just gonna sit here?” he says. You give him your best frown and snatch the cap off his head to protect your own hair, and it’s—sappy, but. You feel your heart swell, looking at him, seeing how his soft hair has gone mussed from the drag of his cap, his open face smirking at you, eyes sparkling like. Like this is some great adventure you’re on, here.

You dash out of the car, shutting the door on his helpful advice to _try not to melt_ , and make polite conversation with the woman behind the desk inside as you wait for her to find your keys and draw you a little map to the cabin you’ve reserved. You’re dripping wet when you climb back into the car, t-shirt plastered to your skin with cold rainwater, and Frankie gives you another amused little smile, letting it turn into something more heated as his eyes drift down over your chest.

The cabin is charmingly small and simple but well-maintained. Frankie parks in front of it and you see him eyeing the distance between the car and the covered front porch as the two of you sit silently in the safe haven of his SUV for a long moment. There’s something cozy and peaceful about the space, quiet with the engine cut but shrouded with the white noise sound of the pouring rain tapping against the roof. Out of the corner of your eye you see him lift his hand as if to adjust his cap, but you haven’t surrendered it back to him yet and he ends up ruffling his own hair instead. You give him a cheeky grin and he bats at the brim of the hat, pushing it down to cover your eyes. But he lets you keep it.

“Alright,” he says finally, twisting around to survey the backseat. “Here’s the game plan. You grab those bags, I grab these ones, and we make a run for it as fast as we can.”

“Without slipping in the mud,” you add.

He snaps his fingers, points at you in agreement. “Right.”

You grab his hand, wrapping your fingers around his so you can pull it to your mouth and press a light kiss to the back of his hand. His eyes go soft and you feel that rush of warm contentment again, like you could stay in this car all day, fuck the cabin, maybe glamping really is overrated when all you really need is to be here with him.

“What was that for?”

“Just. Thank you for driving. I would’ve had an anxiety attack getting through that rain,” you admit. He chuckles, but it’s not teasing.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he says. Obvious.

You smile again and drop his hand, letting the moment end. On his nod, you both jump out of the car and grab your bags from the back, swiftly making your way up the pathway and onto the cabin’s front porch.

It was a useless plan, as far as keeping either of you dry. The rain is still pouring so ferociously you’d felt the heavy drops soak through your clothes the second you’d jumped out of the car, and Frankie’s no better off. His hair is plastered to his forehead, overgrown curls nearly falling into his eyes, and his light blue shirt has turned dark at the shoulders and all down his back. But it was exhilarating, and you’re both laughing when you reach the top step. He doesn’t wait for you to dig out the key and unlock the door, just drops his bags where he stands and leans in to kiss you, twisting his cap sideways on your head to avoid the brim. He gets your face wet with rainwater, his damp hair hitting your skin, and you couldn’t care less even as you start to shiver from the cold.

He cares. He gets you inside, hauling your duffel bags in behind you, and you both stand in the entryway for a moment, admiring the room.

It’s all warm wood, rustic furnishing and plush blankets, simple and cozy. There’s a single king bed and a small kitchenette in the corner, barely more than a mini-fridge and microwave, but it’s enough to make hot cocoa by so you’ve got all you need. You leave your shoes by the door and Frankie pads across the room and ducks into the bathroom, coming back out a moment later with one towel slung over his shoulder and another already working through his hair as he comes back to you. You accept the dry towel and wrap it around your shoulders, still taking in the details of the room.

“Isn’t this nice?” you ask, nudging him. “Aren’t you glad we’re not setting up a tent right now?”

“Sweetheart,” he says, serious and full of meaning, “If we were actually camping I’d already have our sleeping bags zipped together so I could warm you up properly.”

It’s an absolute lie, because you’d both be a hell of a lot muddier if you were trying to pitch a tent in this weather, and just the effort to crawl into your sleeping bags without getting them dirty would take ten minutes alone. But you like the image of it and how his voice rumbles low in his chest, makes you feel warm from the inside out like you’ve taken a shot of whiskey. He steps forward and takes the edges of your towel in hand, tugging them to draw you closer to him, then drops his hand to your waist and tucks his hand up under your shirt, pressing cold fingers to your side.

“Sir,” you protest. You’re fully gone for him, would let him drag you anywhere, but you like how his eyes squint when you tease him, even sweeter right now when he looks so boyish with his hair all messy tousled and damp. “It’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon.”

“So?” he murmurs, closing the distance, tucking his face against yours. You feel the hum of his voice against your lips, his hot breath brushing over you. “What else are we gonna do?”

“There’s… puzzles,” you offer, nodding to the sitting area in the corner, where there’s a wood-burning stove and a stack of puzzles and books filling a bookcase next to a nice big coffee table.

He laughs, flicking his eyes to glance at the corner, and shakes his head. “We can do that later. Listen, I know it’s _your_ birthday trip but right now I’m gonna make an executive decision.”

He’s got both hands under your shirt now, thumbs rubbing gently over your skin, and it’s distracting, making you go a little breathless. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He punctuates it with a kiss. “I want you to take off these clothes, and get into that bed, and I’ll start a fire for you and come give you an early birthday present.”

You hum in agreement, thinking it sounds like a perfect plan, but—

You pull away an inch, tilting your head. “Are you saying your dick is a birthday present?”

His hands tighten and his face turns grumpy, offended. “I’m _saying_ , go get into bed and you’ll find out.”

(It turns out his mouth is the present; he ducks under the covers and buries his face between your legs and goes down on you till you’re trembling, till you’re begging him to fuck you, and he laughs, says _oh now you want it?_ and you do, you do, you urge him up so he can get inside you and he’s still laughing when he finally fucks into you, eyes bright with glee and his mouth slick when he kisses you. You close your eyes to savor the moment, feeling warm with the press of his skin against yours, and you listen to the sound of his groan, low in his throat, and the backdrop of the rain on the roof outside and you are. Exactly where you want to be.)


End file.
